Checkpoints on the Highway
In the fall of 2001, I was living in Scottsdale, Arizona—a sunny, comfortable suburb just north of Phoenix. Life was stable then. I worked as a freelance computer technician, one of those rare individuals fluent in both Mac and Windows. Most of my days involved troubleshooting complex systems, bringing reluctant machines back to life. It was practical, grounding work.
One afternoon, I received a service call from a woman who lived farther north, in the town of Carefree. The name alone felt like an invitation. Her home was unlike anything I had ever seen—and I had seen plenty. I grew up in the affluent suburbs of northern New Jersey and spent my youth traveling through France and England with my family’s antique import business. I’d wandered through old chateaus and stone cottages, through rooms filled with the weight of centuries. But this was different.
Her house was built around towering granite monoliths—sacred standing stones, massive and unmoving, the bones of the Earth itself. They rose up through the floors as if the walls had grown around them. I could feel the hum of the place, a vibration older than anything I understood.
While I worked on her computer, she told me she was close with members of the Hopi tribe and that they had given her permission to build on this sacred land. Then she showed me something they had shared— a message, she said, from the Elders. I listened quietly as she read it aloud.
“You have been telling people that this is the Eleventh Hour.
Now you must go back and tell the people that this is the Hour.
And there are things to be considered…
Where are you living?
What are you doing?
What are your relationships?
Are you in right relation?
Where is your water?
Know your garden.
It is time to speak your truth.
Create your community.
Be good to each other.
And do not look outside yourself for your leader.
There is a river flowing now, very fast.
Those who cling to the shore will suffer greatly.
The elders say we must let go of the shore,
push off into the middle of the river,
keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.
See who is in there with you, and celebrate.
Take nothing personally, least of all yourselves.
The time of the lone wolf is over.
Gather yourselves.
Banish the word struggle from your vocabulary.
All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner
and in celebration.
We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.“
Message from the Hopi Elders–June 8, 2001
The words planted in me like a seed. I couldn’t have named it at the time, but something stirred—a sense that the course of my life was about to shift.
Before Arizona, I had lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Back then, I was just starting out as a technician, still learning and hustling for clients. The work was inconsistent, and the income was tight. I left reluctantly, telling myself Phoenix offered better opportunities. But Santa Fe had always felt sacred to me. There’s something about that land—its red dust, its thin air, the way light falls across the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The city feels alive, like it’s breathing beneath your feet. I knew I’d left a part of myself there.
Then came 9/11.
I grew up with people who worked in those towers. Friends from high school, neighbors from childhood. Even two thousand miles away, I could feel the collapse reverberate through the bones of everyone I knew. The morning unfolded like a slow nightmare. Smoke, ash, disbelief. For one fleeting moment, however, the five boroughs of New York, and the three states of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, became one heartbeat—a single community united in grief and courage.
A few nights later, I had a dream. I don’t remember if it was the following day or the day after, only that it shook me to my core. I saw military checkpoints on the highways, soldiers stopping cars and scanning papers. There was fear in the air, and I woke up in a cold sweat. I turned to my wife and said, “We have to go back to Santa Fe.”
She looked at me, half-asleep, and said, “If one of us can find a job there, we’ll go.”
Within days, she got a call from a friend in Santa Fe offering her a position. Just like that. The river had spoken.
When we recognize the current that’s meant for us, life begins to move differently—not without bumps, but with a kind of invisible guidance. Santa Fe called me home, and I have lived here ever since.
My dream, in its own way, has come true. The world increasingly resembles the one I saw that night—monitored, divided, and afraid. Still, Santa Fe remains a place where the barriers are thin, where spirit feels close to the surface. Over the years, my life here has taken on a new shape. I became a certified Evolutionary Astrologer, started working with clients worldwide, and—after years of study, vision, and rewriting—published my first book.
That book is about Eris, the planet discovered in 2004—the celestial disruptor whose arrival threw both astronomy and astrology into chaos. Her discovery made scientists rethink what it means to be a planet and led to Pluto being dethroned. True to her myth, Eris brought chaos, but also truth. She revealed what had been hidden beneath the surface of consensus, advocating for inclusion, equality, and honesty.
As I continue my work, I notice her influence everywhere. A major astrological cycle is happening in the United States—a series of alignments between Eris and Pluto that started quietly years ago and will grow stronger through the end of this decade. Its effects are clear: political division, social upheaval, the breaking apart of old systems and beliefs. Eris moves slowly—her orbit takes over 577 years—so her impact unfolds over generations. We are experiencing her storm now, and its ripples will last for centuries.
Since these alignments focus on the chart of the United States, the effects will be worldwide. America’s decisions resonate well beyond its borders. What occurs here will influence the future direction of the collective.
I often think back to that message from the Hopi Elders—the river, the letting go, the celebration. Maybe this is what they meant. Maybe we are being carried together into something vast and unstoppable, asked not to cling to the shore, but to trust the current that moves us forward.
After all, we are the ones we’ve been waiting for.
© Daniel Fiverson
